“Detective Ray Logue, meet Detective Sam Harper. This is my partner on the case I was telling you about. Ray Logue is over here from Ireland to help us with the case, Sam, and maybe we can help him too,” Callaghan said, sorting through the case files.
“I know who he is, a guy over from the old country… to help us. I was briefed by Kelly,” Harper said with a sly grin as he stroked his tidy goatee beard.
Logue stepped forward and extended his hand towards Harper. After a moment of hesitation, he clasped Logue’s hand tightly and shook it vigorously. Logue didn’t flinch, even though he could feel the burn from the vice like squeeze. From the looks that passed between the partners, Logue realized that while Callaghan appeared to appreciate his presence, Harper did not.
The female detective took a seat beside Harper and Logue sat to her left.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we?” Callaghan said, taking several files from the box and passing them to Logue.
Ray placed his briefcase on the table, clicked it open and took out a notepad and pen to take notes. Logue had never used a briefcase before. In fact, he felt like a spanner carrying it. He usually kept a bundle of notes in his jacket pocket. Mulcahy had given him the briefcase before he left to try to make him appear more organized and professional looking. He had to make a good impression in front of the Yanks.
Harper looked at the briefcase and smiled to himself.
“The files you have in front of you, Ray, are duplicates, and once we are done here you can take them back with you to if you want to go over them again,” Callaghan said.
As Callaghan spread the three sets of files on the table, Logue noticed that while she was all business and eager to get started with the case, Harper just sat back in his chair looking disinterested. In contrast, Logue sat forward and turned his head towards Callaghan to give her his full attention.
“Just five months ago, on June third, a woman was murdered, her body found on one of the jogging trails in Franklin Park. Her throat had been slit deeply by a large blade. There was no DNA found underneath her nails that would indicate a struggle. After some digging, we found out that the woman’s name was Carissa Meyers and she lived in an apartment at 27 Washington Street,” Callaghan said.
“Was the victim found naked?” Logue asked.
“No. She was fully clothed,” Callaghan responded.
“Was there any identification found on the body?” Logue asked.
This time, before Callaghan could speak, Harper pushed his chair forward and answered instead, “No, a dog walker named Alex Copenhagen, who takes the same path with his dog every morning, was the one who called the body in. Apparently, his dog started barking at the trail ahead and then dashed forward. When he finally caught up to him, Alex discovered a female body, which wasn’t hidden, lying face down on the path as if she had been attacked from behind and fell forward. He reported the discovery to us and during a search of the scene I found a ticket for a carpark from her place of work in her pocket. This allowed us to discover her identity.”
Logue took down notes and nodded towards Callaghan, who continued, “We went to her apartment and found signs of forced entry. The door had been prised open. However, once inside, everything was in its place. Here’s where things get interesting; we found a letter sitting at her work table addressed to Carissa.”
Callaghan flipped the page in the file she was holding and motioned Logue to do the same. As he turned the page, he noticed a photograph of what was written in the letter. Just one line written on the paper, With the death upon her eyes.
Just to be sure what he was looking at, he turned to Callaghan.
“Is this a line from an Edgar Allan Poe poem called A Paean?”
Callaghan and Harper glanced sharply at him and replied in unison, “Yes.”
“It’s from verse seven, the killer posts or leaves an envelope addressed to the victim in their home, each envelope containing a letter or note with just one line, a different line from the poem each time. I have looked into a number of cold cases in the Boston area. So far, I have discovered five murder victims, including the most recent, Carissa Meyers. Two murder victims every ten years. Starting in 89, then 99 and now the first in 2009. Always the same dates, June third, a female, and December sixth, a male. The female with her throat cut, the male decapitated. Each time a line from a different verse from the same poem. It started with verse three and now we are up to verse seven,” Harper explained.
“Boston is not the only place this serial killer has operated in,” Logue responded. “This killer struck for the first time on June third 1979, in Ireland. The first victim was also a female, Hazel Devereaux, and her throat had been slit. She also received a note, a line from the first verse of A Paean. It said, The Solemn Song Be Sung. The second victim’s remains were only discovered last week after resting in a lake for thirty years. His name was Frank Rudden, and he was murdered in June 1979. He was beheaded like the male victims here in Boston. As before, a letter was sent to his home containing a line from the poem.
Harper grabbed a remote from the table and pressed a button on it, which turned on the overhead projector. He typed ‘1979 murder case Ireland’ in the search bar on the desktop computer in front of him and it produced a small number of results. Logue pointed out the third result and said, “That’s the one.”
Callaghan slowly shook her head as if she couldn’t believe it.
“So, do you think it’s the same killer, Ray?” she asked.
“It looks like it,” Logue replied.
“It could be a copycat killer, the one here in Boston mimicking the killings in Ireland. If it’s the same person and they have been killing for thirty years, what bloody age are they?” Harper said, dismissing Logue’s observation.
“In their fifties at least, I suppose,” Logue replied.
“It’s possible,” Callaghan interjected. “Were there any suspects for the murders in 79 in Ireland?”
“Yes. A man named Donal Keane came under the radar of my superintendent, who was a detective on the case at the time. However, before he could talk to him, he moved to the USA and he wasn’t able to trace him. The leads went dead after that and it remained unsolved, or as you would call it over here, a cold case. The discovery of Frank Rudden’s remains recently has reignited interest in the case.”
“Maybe Donal Keane moved to Boston,” Callaghan replied.
“Maybe… Tell me about the other murders here in Boston,” Logue said, picking up the file again.
“Assuming this is the same killer who killed Hazel Devereaux and Frank Rudden, he or she could be behind the five other Boston murders too. The third and fourth murders took place in 1989. Turn the page, Ray, and you will find their pictures.”
Logue turned the page and stared at the lifeless bodies captured by the lens of the police camera.
“The first victim, a female, twenty-seven-year-old Emma Wilson was found on June third 1989, near a dumpster behind O’Dwyer’s bar on Marshall street. As you can see, the wound to her throat was the cause of death. The second victim, a male, a forty-five-year old called John Barry, was discovered in a back alley, behind the apartment building on Union Street where he lived. It was the same MO, throat slit on the female, the male victim decapitated. Letters found in their apartments, with lines from verses 3 and 4 of A Paean.”
Logue flicked on to the file labeled 1999 and found similar pictures of the next two victims. Thirty-six-year-old Gloria Fitzgerald and fifty-four-year-old Richard Clarke. He wrote down the details in his notepad and then turned to speak to Callaghan.
“So far, we have possibly seven murders on our hands and the eighth is about to happen two weeks from now, right?”
Callaghan nodded and took out another file from the box. She tossed it towards Logue and said, “Have a look at it.”
Logue opened the file and discovered separate dossiers on each victim.
“Victims’ ages range from mid-twenties to the mid-fifties. We can
say that the killer doesn’t have an age or sexual preference,” Callaghan explained.
While Logue continued to study the profiles, Callaghan and Harper had a heated conversation. Their tones were hushed enough that Logue couldn’t hear what they were arguing about. After two minutes of bickering Callaghan finally straightened in her chair and spoke to Logue.
“Sam has suggested that we see a criminal profiler before we further proceed with our investigation. This should give us a better perspective, and now that we know the killer has possibly jumped countries, we need to find out what drives or motivates them.”
“Okay, sounds like a good plan,” Logue responded as Callaghan gathered up the paperwork.
Harper drummed his fingers on the table and stared at Logue.
“Ray, why don’t you get all of the case files from the 1979 murder cases in Ireland and hand them over to Sam. While we meet with the profiler, he will work on them and find any connections he can,” Callaghan suggested.
“Sure,” Logue said, pulling the files out of his briefcase and sliding them along the table towards Harper.
Getting up from the table, Callaghan was the first one to head out the door while Logue put on his jacket. Harper walked up to him and took up a defensive stance with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Let me make one thing clear, Irish. This is my case. You are just here to observe, to learn how detectives work over here in a modern country, so don’t get in my way. Olivia might be all right working with you, but I am not. From here on, anything you discover or whatever theory you come up with goes through me first. Understood?”
Logue could have responded with a dozen scathing remarks. However, while his fist was aching to be planted somewhere, preferably in Harper’s face, he controlled his anger, bit his lip and nodded towards the American.
“Right,” Logue said through gritted teeth as he turned and walked out the door.
Detective Sam Harper was not a man to be fucked with. In his twenty-five-year career, he had dealt with dozens of murder cases and brought to justice several serial killers. However, this present case was a challenge. It had been keeping him up for a week straight poring over files, just to find any clue, some little thing that he might be overlooking that could give him the lead he needed. With the information Logue had brought, they might be one step closer to finding out the killer’s identity. While he shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions he had a feeling that Donal Keane, if he was still alive, could lead them to a breakthrough. Fleeing the country meant he must have known something and that he was hiding perhaps incriminating information that would tie him or another individual to the killings. But where was Donal Keane, was he in the cold ground or was he living somewhere within the greater Boston area? There was only one way to find out.
Gathering all the files, Harper placed them back in the storage box and headed out of the conference room. Scanning the hall, he spotted Woods sitting at his desk and typing on a computer. Harper walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Woods turned around and looked up at Harper with a hand on his heart.
Pushing up his glasses on his head, he rubbed his eyes and said, “Dude, you scared me.”
Harper rolled his eyes at Woods and stared at the report he was currently typing.
“You scare too damn easily.” Pointing at the computer he said, “Is that the Rodriguez case? I thought it was closed last week?”
“Yeah, it was supposed to be closed but some new information just popped up and Evans has taken over the case. I am just preparing the case file so that it can be presented to the captain. Is it possible to get a damn place to work in peace in this place? I had to leave the conference room across the hall because that bitch Callaghan came in with some big clumsy looking oaf. Who is he, the new janitor?”
“He looks a bit like a janitor for sure, but no, believe it or not, he is a cop from Ireland.” Harper laughed.
“Really?”
“I need you to take a break from the Rodriguez case and find a guy for me.”
“I can’t, Kelly will tear me apart, he wants this report in an hour,” Woods replied nervously.
Woods had been a detective for six years now and he was damn good at his job, which was finding missing people. He got a thrill from finding people who had dropped from the face of the earth. Since he wasn’t good in the physical field, that was his saving grace.
Before Woods could open his mouth and say no to Harper, the older detective put his hand again on Wood’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry about the report. I will talk with the captain and tell him that you are working with me.”
It was time Harper went to his captain anyway, to tell him about the developments they had made. They had just two weeks to save an innocent life and to catch the killer. With Woods on his team, he had a better chance of dragging out this killer from his hiding place. While he didn’t like Logue, his information had given him enough hope that he might just find the murderer.
Woods cracked his knuckles and closed the report he had been working on.
“So, tell me this person’s name?”
Harper dragged a chair from the other side of the office and sat down.
“Donal Keane.”
“And…?”
“That’s it.”
Woods looked up from the computer and stared at Harper sceptically.
“Are you kidding me? That’s all you got? There are probably thousands of Donal Keanes in this country. How do you suppose I find this guy? Is he even in the system?”
“No. All I know is that he was a suspect in a murder case in Ireland back in 1979 and during the investigation he flew to the USA. Maybe you can get a hold of the flight records from that time and find something out.”
“I can try, but there are slim chances that you will find this guy.”
Harper sat back in the chair and plotted his next course of action. He needed a database that would help grab the needle from the haystack in the first few tries.
The clearing of Woods’ throat jolted Harper out of his thoughts. He looked at him and raised his eyebrows.
“I have an idea. Why don’t we check out all the government databases and then expand our research to national archives? There’s no way the guy doesn’t have a record in one of these,” Woods said.
“Wouldn’t you have to visit the government record office for that?” Harper asked.
“You see, here’s the beauty of the work I do. I can get you anything, from the person’s birth certificate to their death certificate and any other document of importance online. All you need to know is that I am not breaking any laws. After all, I am working for the Police department.”
“All right, I want this done fast, so start working on it. I am going to go grab lunch from the bistro outside, do you want a sandwich?” Harper asked.
“No, I’m good, I work best when I’m hungry.”
Chapter 9: Nine Crimes
Monday 23rd November 2009
Levant Street, Boston
2:00 PM
“Lea Winerman has been working for us for three years now and she has helped us crack some cases that were considered unsolvable,” Callaghan said to Logue on the way to the home of the department’s criminal profiler in Levant street. Callaghan hoped that a visit to Lea would pull back the curtain a little and give them a sneak insight into the mind of the serial killer they were trying to track.
Up until now, everything about this case seemed so cryptic. Callaghan hated to admit it, but this killer appeared to have committed the perfect crimes and left no incriminating evidence behind. The crime scenes were always spotless and never once had a witness come forward. The more she thought about it the more she felt tired and jaded, and confused, and was finding it hard to concentrate. She needed something, caffeine would be a good start.
“… a cup of coffee?”
Logue jolted out of his line of thoughts, he too was running the facts over in his head, trying to make sense of them.
Trying to figure out how they were going to find a connection to the killer. The only person who could answer their questions was possibly Donal Keane. That, of course, depended on if they could locate him and there was no guarantee that he would open his mouth. But Logue believed the guy was hiding something.
“Sorry, what?” Logue replied.
“I was thinking that once we talk with Lea, would you like to join me for a cup of coffee?”
“Of course.”
“I know you are tired, but I was thinking we could share our thoughts on the case and then I will drop you at your hotel.”
“Yea… sure. I’d love to,” Logue responded, turning to Callaghan and giving her his best Donegal grin.
After twenty minutes of driving, Callaghan finally turned into a cul de sac off Levant Street with two rows of houses facing each other in perfect symmetry. From the looks of it, Lea made some good money. It looked like a well to do area. Callaghan parked in front of a light grey building and got out of the car. Logue followed suit, pulling up the waist of his jeans, tucking in his blue check shirt, patting down his hair and trying his best to look respectable, which was a challenge. Logue was one of those guys who would still look like a mess in an Armani suit.
He followed Callaghan up the steps and stood behind her as she pressed a buzzer beside the door. When there was no response, Olivia pressed the buzzer again. After two minutes of silence, a voice came through the intercom, “Yes, who’s this?”
“Hey, Lea, it’s me, Olivia. We had arranged a meeting today.”
“Oh yes, could you wait a second? Juno created a huge mess and I am trying to navigate my way around it,” Lea responded in a confused sounding fashion.
“Yeah sure, no hurry.”
Logue looked at Callaghan with one eyebrow raised.
“Juno is Lea’s dog. He’s a golden retriever. He’s really a big goofball and likes to slide on the marble floor in the house. He probably knocked something over and broke it. He is always doing that, generally something really expensive,” Callaghan whispered.
Nine Lives Page 6